Choice is a curse. If you're not investigating the various
merits of spoodles, schnoodles and peek-a-poos, you're weighing up
state and private schools, or wondering whether the lounge room
should be painted Napkin White, Cottontail or - say it ain't so -
Barrister White. By dinnertime, just choosing a restaurant is
enough to cause meltdown, let alone deciding what to eat. Here's
some help. Go to Shira Nui. Sit at the sushi counter. Order the
omakase, which means chef Hiro Nishikura will dip into his
impressive sushi repertoire to feed you. All he requires is that
you tell him when you're full.

The path to fullness includes standard sushi assemblies of raw,
sliced fish on bricks of vinegared rice, except there's nothing
average about, say, a perfect parallelogram of John Dory, seasoned
with lemon juice and salt, then placed before you with a reverent
gleam and the quiet command: "No soy sauce." The enjoyment is
manifold: there's excitement at the ritualistic commencement of a
journey, there's relief in handing over the decision-making burden,
and there's the sensual pleasure of the firm, fresh fish (delivered
daily, sometimes morning and afternoon), sparked up with citrus and
salt. This morsel is perfectly satisfying in the moment but, like a
kiss, it creates a desire for more in its wake.

Onwards, then, to a leaf of salmon, grilled on one side and
dusted with salts, peppers and chilli; grilled beef draped over
rice like a blanket on a bed; a crazily sweet, gelatinous prawn; an
ark-shell clam that tastes like nothing until you get a faint,
nostalgic whiff of the sea; rich mackerel under white seaweed; and
tuna belly, the fatty, marbled Wagyu of the fish world.

Sometimes, Hiro-san will blast one side of a piece of fish with
a blowtorch in a kind of Zen welder cameo. The result is a
charcoaly coaxing that turns already delicious fish into a rainbow
of flavours. We had, I think, 11 courses before begging for mercy.
If you obey the unwritten rules about the omakase experience,
you'll get better fish, more interesting preparations and a happier
vibe from the other side of the counter. Hiro-san may even throw in
a complimentary dish or two.

So, how to play it? You're facing the workstation rather than
your dining companions: this is where your focus should be.
Hiro-san undertook a 13-year apprenticeship to become this good.
He's worth watching. His knife moves in fluid, ribbon-like motions,
as though connected more to eye than wrist. His hands are rhythmic,
plunging into the steaming rice container to pluck a handful, then
squeezing and patting it deftly. It's good theatre but, rather than
applause, the protagonist wants you to eat each dish promptly and
to show your appreciation. Indeed, if you are tardy or unfocused,
the journey may halt until you contritely request more food.

Shira Nui is a sparse place without much froufrou. As well as
the 13-seat counter, there are tables and chairs, at which you can
order soups, tempura and grills from the hot kitchen, as well as
sushi and sashimi by piece or platter. But this takes us back to
menus and - ergh - choice. Still, if the worst thing about your day
is choosing between udon and buckwheat noodles, life isn't so
bad.